


Robots in Love

by Amina



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-27
Updated: 2014-01-27
Packaged: 2018-01-10 06:33:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1156290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amina/pseuds/Amina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Scott and Stiles are an alternative band turned critically acclaimed mainstream rock duo. They're on top of the world until two newcomers, Isaac and Derek who wear helmets a la Daft Punk, beat them for Album of the Year. A feud ensues between the two acts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Robots in Love

**Author's Note:**

> Got inspired by this watching the Grammys of course. I love Daft Punk and Teen Wolf, so I blended the two. Disclaimer: I do not own anything by Daft Punk or Teen Wolf. This will be a chaptered fic.

Scott always liked award shows. He liked donning a nice black suit and snazzy shoes and enjoyed the opportunity to talk with artists from other genres such as country. Stiles was the complete opposite. He routinely made the worst dressed lists with his choices of faded flannels and dark jeans, and he just glared at the other artists, thinking that they were all snobs.

Scott and Stiles had no idea they would make it big when they started alternative rock band Alpha. It was just a way for the two of them to blow off some steam in Scott’s garage. Stiles was on drums while Scott played lead guitar and sang. Whenever an interviewer asked them why they didn’t have a bass player, they just said they were trying to be like The White Stripes. It was only half a lie. They did really like Jack and Meg White, but neither of them knew how to play bass.

Their first hit was unexpected as the song featured unabashed cursing and was reminiscent of Blink 182’s early work. That was the album that shot the pair to stardom, bringing them to the Grammys and winning them Best New Artist and Album of the Year. After their debut, the awards and fame came easy to them. Scott couldn’t walk outside without getting mobbed by hundreds of screaming fangirls, and Stiles drove with a bat in the back of his jeep to fend off the surprisingly numerous male fans that regularly attacked his car with proclamations of love.

Stiles had made them late to this particular awards show. He was fighting with their stylist about his new hairstyle. He wanted desperately to keep his buzzcut, but Lydia was insistent that the girls liked longer hair.

“I don’t care what the girls like! I’m a musician, not a model,” he whined. Lydia just sighed and attempted to shove him into a suit. The attempt, as usual, was in vain as Stiles ended up wearing his normal plaid shirt and garish graphic t. Stiles just didn’t care about all the pageantry that came along with fame, something Scott was grateful for. It kept his head down from the clouds.

The two snuck in during the opening performance, an upbeat number by a pop singer that always haunted the radio. Stiles nearly fell as they made their way through the rows of seats to the ones labeled with their names. Scott paid attention eagerly throughout the show, memorizing the winners’ names so he could congratulate them at the after party. Stiles didn’t even feign interest, openly yawning and checking his phone.

“You’re gonna look like a douche on tv,” Scott whispered in his ear. Stiles shrugged.

“I am a douche. They’re used to it by now. I’m like Chevy Chase. They look past my douchiness and appreciate my art,” he argued. Scott just rolled his eyes. Finally, the category they were nominated in came up: Album of the Year. All the critics had predicted them as the winners. It was a safe bet since the album went platinum and their world tour sold out in under an hour after tickets went on sale. Stiles was getting ready to walk up to the stage when his face dropped. The name they announced was definitely not Alpha. Scott quirked an eyebrow, trying to process the loss. What was it? Wolf pack? no… wolf howl? The announcer said the name once more.

“The Wolves!” He said cheerily. Scott gritted his teeth. That was it. Simply, The Wolves. He clapped, trying to appear polite for the cameras, but Stiles was not disguising his displeasure. Two men clothed in black suits got up on stage with…robot helmets on? Stiles did a double take. One of them was taller and leaner with a dark black stripe where a person’s eyes should be. The shorter, more muscular one, wore a gold helmet with a vertical black stripe, cutting his face in half. They didn’t even talk accepting the award, determined to keep the ridiculous helmets on.

“We lost to these dicks?” Stiles asked him. Scott shook his head, silently begging Stiles to play nice for the cameras. “They play, like, dance music. They’re not even talking or taking off their helmets ugh!” he grimaced.

The after party was fun. Scott rubbed elbows with the rich and famous, which he guessed he was part of now. It was still weird thinking of himself in the same way as Brad Pitt and Jay Z, but he was slowly getting used to it. Stiles was over in a corner blathering to Courtney Love about something, getting drunker by the minute. A dull pain built up behind Scott’s eyes. He pinched his nose and made his way outside to the limo. His fingers sent Stiles a quick text explaining that he had a headache and was going back to the hotel.

Instead of dropping right into bed once he got home, he opened his laptop and googled The Wolves. Their songs had no emotion in them, he thought. They were about things like bus stops and computers. Their voices had a digital quality to them, and Scott couldn’t stomach listening to them for longer than a few minutes. He shook his head, wondering how they lost to such a weird duo as he drifted off to sleep.

He woke up to fifty messages from his manager, all variations of Stiles fucked up, call me back. Rubbing his eyes, Scott dialed Allison’s number.

“Scott thank god you called!”

“What happened?”

“What? You really don’t know? Just look at any news site online. It’s everywhere,” she groaned. Scott pulled up E! news and nearly screamed. The headline read: Alpha Drummer Badmouths Award Winning Wolves. Scott said a quick goodbye to Allison and threw on a bathrobe. He ran down the hall to the room where Stiles was staying. The sound of his fist hitting the door echoed in the deserted hallway. Stiles appeared, drool stained and red eyed.

“Dude, be quiet, some of us had a little too much to drink last night,” he complained. Scott pushed him into the privacy of the room.

“I can’t believe you talked shit about The Wolves! Stiles that’s so unprofessional. People are going to hate us now! No one is going to go to our tour, all because you were a sore loser!” He screamed, grabbing a pillow and beating his friend with it.

“What? What? I didn’t do anything!” He protested.

“Are you kidding me? Were you that drunk that you can’t remember talking to the paparazzi? You trash talked the wolves! I don’t know what you said, but I’m sure it is of the highest douchiness,” he finished, flopping down on the bed and screaming into the linen.

“Jeez man. I completely forgot about that. God what was in the punch? I would never normally do that. Don’t worry. I’ll fix this. I’ll call Entertainment Weekly and issue an apology,” he said. Scott sighed. Sure, that would help a little bit, but they would still lose some fans.

The statement crafted by Stiles and Allison was a good one. It apologized profusely to The Wolves, saying that they deserved the award, and that Stiles was just bitter after losing and had a little too much to drink. It was essentially the truth, but even Scott thought that The Wolves didn’t deserve the award.

They all thought that that would be Alpha’s last encounter with The Wolves. There was no reason their paths would cross again. Award show season was over, and their music was so different that they would never tour together. Scott did keep an eye on the pair. He discovered that the members’ names were Isaac Lahey and Derek Hale. Derek did take his helmet off occasionally, displaying a ruggedly handsome, if chronically grumpy, face, but Isaac never took it off. As far as Scott knew, a picture of Isaac’s face did not exist on the internet.

That all changed one night when Stiles decided to go grocery shopping for their apartment. Of course, they still shared an apartment even though they could both afford to live in their own mansions. Some things never changed.

Stiles stood in the grocery store with a cart looking at the wall of cereals. He was trying to work on his diet so that he could take their shirt off in their new music video, so he was looking for a cereal that wasn’t too sugary.

“Puffins is really good if you’re looking for something new to try,” a voice beside him suggested.

“Does it have a lot of sugar in it?” He asked without looking at the stranger.

“No actually. It’s a pretty healthy cereal,” he answered.

“Huh, I’ll give it a try,” Stiles replied.

“Hey… aren’t you Stiles from Alpha?” The voice asked. Stiles spun around to humbly claim his identity, but he recognized the face behind him. He knew that stubble and those hard eyes.

“Hey you’re Derek from The Wolves!” He nearly shouted.  Derek’s grin immediately faltered.

“You’re the dick who said we didn’t deserve the award,” he pushed his cart against Stiles’.

“Damn right I did,” Stiles pushed back. Derek whipped his cart out of the way, grabbing Stiles by the shirt collar.

“Isaac cried for an hour after he read what you said about us,” he said, pushing Stiles up against the wall of cereal.

“Not my fault he’s such a wimp,” Stiles retorted and kicked at Derek’s hard abdomen.

“I’ll get you, little piece of shit,” he shouted, running after Stiles.

“Catch me if you can! And I’m not trying your damn Puffin cereal!” He screamed, running straight into the policeman the store owners had called. Derek and Stiles swallowed thickly, knowing they were in for the scolding of their lives.

Both of them were shipped off to the police station. They were let off easy because of the faulty justice system and their fame, but Scott still ripped a hole through Stiles with his words when he came and picked him up at the station. A blonde woman, probably his agent, picked up Derek, screaming at him.

“You know this is gonna be in tomorrow’s paper right? I can’t believe you got in a fight with Derek Hale!” He said getting into a taxi. He gave the driver the address and went back to his conversation with Stiles. “Dude, all scolding aside, how did you have the balls to go after that brute? He’s huge,” Scott said in awe. Stiles just shrugged, leaving out the part where he felt like he was gonna pee his pants.

 

“They’re calling it a feud,” Allison said the next day in Scott’s hotel room. Stiles was laying on the bed, apologizing on repeat.

“Well that’s kind of cool right? Kind of like the Hatfield and McCoys?” Stiles offered, trying to brighten the situation. Allison shot him a glare.

“We need you two to fix it some how,” she crossed her arms expectantly at Stiles.

“I have an idea,” Scott began. “How about we go to one of their shows, sit in the front row, clap and cheer politely, and then meet them backstage for a formal apology?” Scott suggested. Allison mulled it over in her head before giving them the okay.

The concert was the next day. Things moved fast for a rockstar. As much as Scott didn’t want to admit it, it was a pretty fun show. Their music was very catchy and extremely easy to dance to. Stiles tried to avoid Derek’s soulless black gaze through his helmet and kept his eyes on Scott and the crowd the whole time. The crowd slowly filtered out once the concert was over. Scott and Stiles moved towards the backstage area where they showed the guards their passes.

“Why do I have to apologize to Derek?” Stiles whined.

“Because he’s the one who you attacked in a supermarket,” Scott reminded him.

“But he attacked me first!”  
“You provoked him, don’t even deny it Stilinski,” he warned. “Oh, here’s Isaac’s dressing room,” he noted a door with Isaac’s name printed on it. He knocked a few times, but no one answered. “I’ll just wait for him inside. You go find Derek’s dressing room and do the same!” he ordered. Stiles slumped away, and Scott made himself comfortable on Isaac’s couch. After about ten minutes, a figure clothed in all black wearing a helmet entered the room. Before Scott could announce his presence, Isaac removed the helmet, revealing a head of sweat soaked light brown curls. Isaac spun around, hearing a strangled noise coming from Scott.

“Oh my god,” the taller boy said, looking from Scott to the helmet in his hands. Scott couldn’t speak. He had never expected to see Isaac without his helmet on, and now that he had, he wondered why the boy wore the helmet at all. Big blue eyes looked out at him pleadingly, and sharp cheekbones cut through pale skin.

“Oh my god, I’m sorry! I just wanted to say sorry about the whole grocery store thing with Stiles,” Scott said nervously. Isaac stood motionless, clearly trying to decide whether or not he should put the helmet back on. “You can put it back on if you want. I wasn’t trying to catch you with it off or anything,” Scott said. Isaac thanked him and pulled the helmet back over his head.

“Thanks for coming to say sorry,” he said, his voice automated through the helmet. Scott nodded. It was weird talking to him with it on. It felt like he was really talking to a robot. Scott got the feeling Isaac didn’t talk much.

“Hey do you want to go out for drinks with me and Stiles?” Scott asked, forgetting the difficulty that would come with drinking with a robot helmet on. Isaac giggled.

“No thanks,” he replied.

“Maybe some other time? Here let me give you my number,” Scott said, taking the boy’s phone from his hands and copying his number down into his own contacts. “I’ll text you,” he smiled. Isaac was silent, his expression hidden by the mask. Scott could feel himself start to sweat. “Guess I should get out of here. Stiles is talking to Derek right now. Could you point me to his dressing room?” he asked. Isaac made a gesture that read: follow me, and guided Scott down a long hallway to a very similar looking door.

The door swung open, revealing the two supposed rivals making out on the couch.


End file.
